“It’s his name now.”
“Jake Oliver wasn’t good enough for him?”
“In our world it’s safer to create a new identity. Hell, until just before I met you, I didn’t know him by anything but Quinn.”
She scrutinized him again. “So you’re saying your name really isn’t even Nate?”
He smiled. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“On if we’re talking about before or after I started working for your brother.”
Just then the train began to slow as they pulled in to a new station. Nate looked out the window. A sign on the wall said Gare du Nord.
“Our stop,” he said.
He stood up and walked toward the door.
“Movement,” Orlando said.
She was at the dining room table, her laptop in front of her. Quinn moved in behind her. The image on the screen showed the blue dot representing Nate’s phone moving west from Liz’s apartment. But was Liz with him? For that matter, had they been taken or were they still free?
Quinn pulled out his phone.
“You still shouldn’t call him,” Orlando said.
“I’m not calling. I’m texting.”
Orlando rolled her eyes as he brought up the virtual keyboard and tapped in one word.
Update
He hit Send. If he didn’t hear back within the next thirty minutes, they’d go to Paris whether it was a bad idea or not.
Orlando’s phone began to ring. She looked at the display, then at Quinn. “It’s Scott Bethel.” Bethel was the person in Moscow she’d asked to follow up on the Stepka lead. She hit Accept. “Hold on, Scott. I’m putting you on speaker.”
She set the phone down next to her computer and touched the screen.
“Okay,” she said. “What have you learned?”
“I found this Stepka guy in an apartment full of highend computer gear,” Bethel said. “Didn’t want to talk at first. But he’s the soft type.”
“Did you hurt him?” Quinn asked.
“Didn’t have to,” Bethel said. “I don’t think he goes out much.” Bethel’s specialty was getting in and out of places unseen. Though he wasn’t large like Julien, he was solid, and could be intimidating if he wanted to.
“Where is he now?”
“Sitting in front of me.”
“What?”
“I’m in his apartment. We just had a nice little talk. But I thought you might want to hear directly from him what he had to say.”
“I’d love to.”
“Let me put him on speaker.” There was a bit of static, then Bethel said in a voice more distant than before, “All right, Stepka. Why don’t you tell my friend what you just told me?”
Silence.
“Stepka. My name is Quinn. Jonathan Quinn. I believe you were doing a little research on me. I’d like to know why.”
More silence.
“So you’re not going to talk to my friend?” Bethel asked. “Maybe this will change your mind.”
There was a loud crash and the sound of something breaking into several pieces.
“No, don’t!” a voice yelled. English with a Russian accent. Stepka.
“What was that?” Quinn asked.
“This kid’s got more computer equipment jammed in here than most IT departments I’ve seen. Well, a little less than he had a moment ago.” Bethel paused. “How about we try this monitor now?”
“No! No, I will talk.”
“Then talk.”
“Mr. Quinn. I … I was only checking on you because … because you have been getting in our way.”
“In your way of what?” Quinn asked.
“Our search for the Ghost.”
“The Ghost?”
“His real name is Palavin. Former KGB. A butcher.”
That jibed with both what Orlando had uncovered and what the Russian woman had claimed. “Why are you looking for him?”
“We want to … talk with him.”
“Talk with him? Really? I get the feeling you want to do more than that.”
Stepka said nothing.
“All right,” Quinn said. “Tell me about the woman.”
“What woman?”
“The woman who is here searching for him.”
“Petra,” Stepka said. “She is the team leader.”
“How many in her team?”
“Now? Just two. She and a man named Mikhail.”
“Why is she interested in me?”
“You have information that will help us find Palavin.”
“I have no such information.”
“Of course you have,” Stepka said. “You’ve been working for him. We need what you know. Petra will find you. She will—”
“Take him off speaker, Scott,” Quinn said. He shared a look with Orlando.
There was a faint click, then Bethel said, “Okay, it’s just me.”
“Put him on ice for right now. Someplace no one can find him for a few days. I’ll let you know when you can release him. But don’t hurt him. Feed him and give him a place to sleep.”
“I can do that.”
“Good,” Quinn said. “We’ll be in touch.”
As soon as he hung up, Orlando said, “What do you think?”
“If Palavin really was Wills’s client, then that might explain why Annabel Taplin had his picture with mine. But even then, whatever these Russians are up to could mess things up for us. My family’s safety comes first. I’m not going to allow them to get in my way.” He paused. “What we really need to do is have a little chat with Ms. Taplin. Can you find out if she’s returned to London yet?”
Orlando smiled. “I can do that.”
Chapter 32
Petra visited restaurants and grocery stores and hotels and massage parlors and whatever else she could find that was owned and operated by Russian expats. At first, when they realized she was also Russian, they were friendly enough. But when she showed the drawing of Quinn and started asking more questions, they became wary. Some refused to give her any more answers, while others kept their responses to one or two words.
She knew the look in their eyes well. She’d borne it herself more times than she could remember. It was the fear and suspicion that came with having grown up in the former Soviet Union.
She returned to the apartment just before 9 p.m., unsuccessful and completely drained.
“Mikhail?” she called out.
There was no response.
She sat down at the table and tried calling Stepka, but he didn’t answer. So she left a message, folded her arms, and lay her head down, intending to rest her eyes for a moment.
The sound of a key turning in the lock of the front door made her snap back up. The side of her mouth was damp, and she realized she’d fallen asleep. She glanced at her watch, surprised to see a half hour had passed.
She rubbed her face as she turned toward the door. That’s when she got her second surprise. It wasn’t Mikhail. It was a young woman.
She was beautiful. Long blonde hair that had been clipped in place so that it flowed down her back, bright blue eyes behind a fashionable pair of semi-rimless glasses, and a trim but appropriately rounded figure that would go unnoticed by no one.
“Who are you?” Petra asked, rising from her chair.
An instant later Mikhail entered behind the woman. “Please,” he said to the girl in Russian, motioning toward the table. “Sit down.” The woman looked at him uncertainly, so he smiled and pointed again. “Please.”
Once she’d sat, Mikhail signaled for Petra to join him near the door.
“Who is she?” Petra whispered.
“Her name is Natalia,” he said. “She recognized the picture.”
Petra’s eyes widened as she glanced at the girl.
“I was checking a couple of Russian-run hotels in the West End,” Mikhail went on.
“She saw him in a hotel?” Petra asked.